


Breaking Point

by CharismaticEnticer



Category: Die Anstalt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Athletes, Autism, Burnout Syndrome, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Hindu Character, Colored Words, Confusion, Custom Skinned, Delirium, Demons, Depression, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Doctor/Patient, Dr Wood must always be controversial, Fic Illustrated, Gen, Germany, Headcanon, Holidays, Injury, Look at all these fucking tags, Major Character Injury, Male Friendship, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Muscles, Outsider's viewpoints on mental illnesses are not always helpful or accurate, Overwork, POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Parents & Children, Present Tense, Religious Allusion, Religious Guilt, Repressed Memories, Selective Amnesia, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Skype, Social Anxiety, Sorry for making things difficult for the tag wranglers!, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt, The demons are a metaphor for her problems you understand, sprained ankle, tempted to break out the severe warning stamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharismaticEnticer/pseuds/CharismaticEnticer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humanized!AU. Five separate people realize they need more help than everyday life can provide. A sixth is there to aid them all. Set pre-"game".</p><p>  <b>Fic Illustrated as of 21/12/14 and 07/07/15.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mothers and Children

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, my lovely girlfriend has looked over at least this chapter for me. Thanks, babe!
> 
> At time of writing, there are at least three, if not four or more, humanized Die Anstalt headcanons out there, all with differing looks, names and re-interpretations of backstories to fit with their new species. Those used in this fic are simply the headcanons I choose to adopt. I will respect yours, so please respect mine. 
> 
> There is a Skype conversation in the first section of the fic, secretly formatted similarly to One Two Three. To get all the tables the same width, the word count will be off by about sixty words. As with spoken dialogue, it is actually written in German; the [square brackets] around them are simply there to distinguish the English translation. All typos are transliterations from their German equivalents, and deliberate on my (the author's) part.
> 
> Die Anstalt © Martin Kittsteiner. All humanizations of the toy characters are my interpretations of those created by him. Pepin Fertig, mentioned briefly in the second section, © littlemissylissamel from Tumblr. All other OCs featured here belong completely to me.

It's days like today that he doesn't even know why he got Skype.

Most of the time, it's a lifesaver. He can keep up a social network without actually leaving the house, and the sound effects of people logging in and out are enough to keep him awake at night so he can be ever vigilant against the enemy. He's most vulnerable to them in his sleep.  
But there is always that one caveat that makes everything else worse off for it... besides the laggy connection at times. If he could, he would go offline forever and ever if only to get away from the woman living across the street that always seems to want to contact him at the worst possible time and ask how her favourite (only) son is doin--

Heike Brinkerhoff | [Kroko?] [Come on, man, I gave you the code this morning. I don't think the answer's changed in the twelve hours] | 8:32 PM  
---|---|---  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [You still around?] | 8:32 PM  
  
The blip of the two new messages catches his attention. He emerges from underneath his blue-patterned quilt, keeping it wrapped close around him to be on the safe side, and starts a new conversation, his favourite teddy bear resting on the screen's side. At least here, he doesn't have to speak to anyone face to face. Heike is one of the few people in his life who understands this... if Heike even **is** Heike anymore.

Arndt Vann | [passcode question: what's my favourite drink?] | 8:33 PM  
---|---|---  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Come on, man, I gave you the code this morning. I don't think the answer's changed in the twelve hours since we spoke.] | 8:33 PM  
Arndt Vann | v [passcode question: what's my favourite drink?] | 8:33 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Fine. Microwaved chocolate milk. Is that better?] | 8:34 PM  
Arndt Vann | [thanks, yeah i'm here] | 8:34 PM  
Arndt Vann | [had to make sure they didn't get to you too] | 8:34 PM  
Arndt Vann | [they got to ottilie today, i had to remove her] | 8:34 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Really? I wondered why she was confused when she came over this afternoon, not affected by them at all.] :^) | 8:35 PM  
  
_[How do you know she isn't?]_ he thinks in the closest thing he can get to spite.  
No, that's not fair. Their influence can be subtle sometimes. Not the seething mass of black tentacles he's used to, only a thin wisp out of their mouths as they talk. Or in this case, underlining their words.

Arndt Vann | [i'm sorry] | 8:35 PM  
---|---|---  
Arndt Vann | [it's been a long bad day, i've just come off from having to talk to my mother and you know what she's like] | 8:36 PM  
Arndt Vann | ["turn the webcam on arndt i want to see you when you talk to me you don't have to be afraid of your own mummy  
do you bla bla bla so disappointing in you"] | 8:36 PM  
Arndt Vann | *[disappointed] :( | 8:36 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Ouch. No, you're fine. I had a bad day at college too, didn't mean to take it out on you.] | 8:37 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Anyway, have you managed to leave the house today? You said yesterday you were gonna try.] | 8:37 PM  
Arndt Vann | [i was gonna but i couldn't do it] | 8:38 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Oh Kroko really. You said you needed to go shopping for food!] | 8:38 PM  
Arndt Vann | [i know i know i'm sorry!!!] | 8:38 PM  
Arndt Vann | [but i heard on the internet that it was gonna rain and then it did so i had to stay inside so it wouldn't get me] | 8:39 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Okay, I'll give you it rained, but it stopped, didn't it? You could've gone when it stopped.] | 8:39 PM  
Arndt Vann | [yeah but puddles] | 8:39 PM  
  
He wraps himself tighter in the duvet, watching the moving pencil icon that says a long message is being written. The laptop is the only light in the room now, and it's hurting his eyes almost.  
He can feel the shame from over here. He's been trying so hard to fit what everyone sees as an active out-and-about person, to have a life outside of home and Skype and everything. But even the tiniest hint of progress is always set back by the appearance of rain-clouds across the sky, the promise he always wants broken but never is.  
Ottilie once called it aquaphobia. His mother calls it him being silly.

With a beep, the reply is finally finished, seemingly after being revised several times considering how short it turns out to be. 

Heike Brinkerhoff | [By that logic, you can't even stay in the house; there's water vapour in the air, you know. Only a little bit, like 1% or  
something, but enough to maybe get your lungs wet.] :P | 8:42 PM  
---|---|---  
  
His throat dries up by the end of that. Oh God he's right! There's water in the air all the time! It's in his body right now!!  
He retreats back under the mass of cotton and cloth, curling up tight to stop himself breathing any more in. If water's in his system, that means the enemy is in his system. And if the enemy is in his system then he's going to become one of them, and he'll ruin other people's lives as well as his own and then everything will be horrible!!

He only lasts a few minutes of not inhaling before he starts getting dizzy. It's one of those sad reflexes of life. One traitorous breath, two. He can feel the spikes of the danger on the other side pass into him. God knows how much he's accumulated over the years. How much everyone else has...

Another notification sound, followed by two more. He chances a peek out. The world hasn't changed since the revelation. Heike is still there.

Heike Brinkerhoff | [Arndt?] [Come on, man, I gave you the code this morning. I don't think the answer's changed in the twelve hours] | 8:47 PM  
---|---|---  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Arndt, come back. I was kidding.] | 8:48 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [That's what the :P is for. Because I was kidding. We've been over this before.] | 8:48 PM  
  
...oh.

Arndt Vann | [don't DO that!!!] | 8:49 PM  
---|---|---  
Arndt Vann | [you had me really really scared for a moment there I thought I was finding too!!] | 8:49 PM  
Arndt Vann | *[the enemy not finding] | 8:49 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Kroko, that was worrying. First not going out of the house at all, and now this... I'm scared for you, man.] | 8:50 PM  
Arndt Vann | [i'm sorry] | 8:50 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [It's not an I'm sorry thing! It's just concern for your well-being. As a friend, I can't keep watching this fear of  
water and] scji | 8:50 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [and everything else destroy you. You need help.] | 8:51 PM  
Arndt Vann | [i thought that's what you were trying to do] | 8:51 PM  
Arndt Vann | [by being online and understanding and stuff] | 8:51 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [PROFESSIONAL help, Arndt. I can only do so much for you. Going to a good therapist and talking about your  
fears and things will help you more than I ever could.] | 8:52 PM  
Arndt Vann | [NO NO] NEINEINEINEINEIN | 8:52 PM  
Arndt Vann | [i can't go to a therapist, therapists are outside!] | 8:53 PM  
Arndt Vann | [and besides mum will say i don't need them because i'm fine and i can't make her sad anymore...] | 8:53 PM  
  
Even as he types, he knows it's not exactly true. His parent will concede to this drastic measure if it means him getting better. And he's scared of water, not of leaving the house per se.  
But there's always this underlying fear, when it comes to therapy and help and things, that whatever they do will only make matters worse.  
He doesn't want to get worse.

Heike Brinkerhoff | [Arndt, please. At least try. For your sake, not mine.] | 8:54 PM  
---|---|---  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Look, there's this new mental health clinic that opened in Sassnitz last week. That's only a few towns over.] | 8:54 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Hang on] | 8:55 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | http://www.sinnbasierteheilung.de | 8:57 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Apparently it helps people cope with their mental health problems by using the senses as well as the usual  
methods. Sound, light, touch, things like that.] | 8:57 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [They even have cuddly toys for 'tactile therapy'! I know how much you like those.] | 8:58 PM  
  
Arndt takes pause. The quilt becomes more comforting than ever at that thought. He grabs hold of the teddy bear with one pale hand, pulls her close, types with the other.

Arndt Vann | [...do you think i can take ursula with me?] [Come on, man, I gave you the code this morning. I don't think the answer] | 8:58 PM  
---|---|---  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [I don't see why not. You're not gonna hide anything dangerous in her.] | 8:59 PM  
  
On the left hand side of the screen, her name is still there, showing her to be busy but online.  
Anything to get away from his mother...

Arndt Vann | [then okay. i'll give it a go. but if it doesn't work, i'm going straight back home.] | 8:59 PM  
---|---|---  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [Thank you.] | 9:00 PM  
Arndt Vann | [thank you too. but how do i get there? it's still outside, isn't it?] | 9:00 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [I have a car. Email me your house address and I'll pick you up tomorrow at 10am. It should say what it is on  
my profile.] | 9:00 PM  
Heike Brinkerhoff | [And your favourite drink will still be microwaved chocolate milk by then, right?] | 9:01 PM  
Arndt Vann | [Right.] :) | 9:01 PM  
  
\-------------------------------------

"[Thanks again for having us over, Sonje,]" the man across from her says, supping his beverage. "[And for this great coffee too!]"  
"[Oh, think nothing of it. It's been months since we've had guests, so when we do get them, they're in for a pampering!]"

She laughs, but it's true; Sonje - she who has never quite been used to the idea of being called anything but Frau Fertig - still can't believe that in the nearly over-a-year since the Eichels moved in next door, they haven't come over properly to each other's houses, preferring to chat in the gardens. But, of course, now is as good a time as any to fix that, what with the news of the latter's second pregnancy and all.  
It will certainly do her offspring some good to meet them at last, she hopes. Especially little Kaspar, who is currently pulling his mother's dangly necklace into his mouth and sucking on it contentedly.

"[Will Li-Lo be coming down soon?]" asks Gabi, denting a hole in that happiness balloon. She called him down five minutes ago, and not a stir...  
"[He should be. I'm sure he heard, but I've told you what he's like. If he doesn't get a move on, I'll call him again.]"  
"[What about Pepin?]"  
"[He won't be home until two, I'm afraid. Another dentist's appointment; he's getting his dry socket redressed.]"  
Gabi shakes her head in sympathy while Kaspar gurgles around the fake gems. "[The poor dear. What do you suppose is causing this?]"  
"[Not a clue,]" she says with a shrug. "[I've told him to clean his gums thoroughly, but he says it hurts too much, especially around the raw bit. If this keeps up, we'll have to mash up his food for him before he--]"

There's a creak at the door between living room and front hall. Her parental instinct kicks in, telling her even before she turns to see the shy glimpse of dark hair, face and eyes that it's the older of her two offspring.  
"[There you are, Li-Lo! We wondered when you'd put in an appearance,]" invites Sonje, gesturing to them. The adults give a reassuring wave; the eight-month-old is happily oblivious.

Li-Lo comes inside in his own way, walking on his toes as usual - fortunately, this time he's wearing his well-worn pair of slippers, purple and red to go with the usual outfit, so he can't get blisters from it. Kaspar finds this oddly funny, letting out a sudden loud cackle; her son pauses at the sound, visibly flinching.  
"[It's all right, Li-Lo, the baby's just happy, he's not laughing at you,]" she feels the need to reassure.  
"[Nah, Kaspar wouldn't do that, would you, little guy?]" Phillip, having drained the coffee by this time, reaches over to tickle his little one in the tummy and employ the classic baby talk. "[Would you? You wouldn't do that to the nice man, no you wouldn't, you're too cute for that~]"  
Judging by the clasping of his hands, her own son doesn't look very convinced.

"[Oh, while you're down here,]" she interjects quickly, "[why don't we show the Eichels that collection you've been working on?]"  
Her neighbours' interests are caught at that. "[You mean the 3D Puzzles?]"  
"[Yes, yes! They're all over there, if you come look.]"

Everyone pulls themselves up and she leads them over to a long golden-tinted side table, stretching from the radiator to the fireplace. Puzzles of various objects and landmarks - an accurate Earth, three-quarters of a lighthouse, the Elizabeth or 'St Stephen's' clock tower, et cetera - are spread in a neat line along it, the earliest-completed on the right hand side.  
"[Oh yes, I saw some of those when we came in. But I thought they were sculptures!]" Gabi confesses, dumbfounded. "[They look so intricate! And Li-Lo built these all himself?]"  
"[From the ground up. I think I told you, it's been his passion since he started Gymnasium, and you know how autistic people are with passions. Of course, he's had less time for it over the years, as you can see,]" says Sonje, a bit more bitterly than she intended, as she follows their eyes to the barebones base of the Neuschwanstein Castle he started about nine months ago. "[But they look beautiful when they're done, don't they?]"  
"[Absolutely. Whoever makes these does a very good job with the detailing. Honey, look, you can actually see each individual seat in the Munich stadium!]"  
"[Oh Phillip, you and your spor--]"

The sound of a thousand cascading puzzle pieces, enough to make hearts skip beats, interrupts their banter. Sonje immediately suspects Kaspar, but no, he's still in his mother's arms, reaching but not touching.  
Double-checking confirms the worst case scenario: Li-Lo has taken a load-bearing piece out of the lighthouse. He turns it around in his hands, as if not quite sure what to do with it, as the rest congeal in a puddle at his feet.

She can physically sense the tension draping over the group.

"[...Um, Sonje? Is Li-Lo oka--]"  
"[No, yes, no need to worry, it's fine!]" she shouts with slightly forced joviality. "[I can clean that up later. Li-Lo's just being awkward, _aren't you, Li-Lo?_ ]"  
Not even a shake or a nod to respond to that.

As usual, it's up to her to get the social order back on track. "[Anyway, I'm going to go get something to - OH! That reminds me. Kaspar, I've got something special for you!]"

She can't get into the kitchen fast enough, secretly fretting as she does. As much as a deep-rooted part of her tells her it's not a problem, that Li-Lo can't help being who he is, that it was probably just an accident, she can't hold it in good faith.  
For one thing, he used to be so much more **talkative**. Coming home every day, telling her at top speed about the things he learned about maths and science and everything, about what new fact Rosemarie told him during lunchtime, how much of a great friend she is, how he wants to be her friend forever and ever, and can he go over to her house tomorrow night, he wants to help her with her homework again, and he'll be back by seven he swears...  
And then, in the exam period before his seventeenth birthday, all of that just - slowed down. Down enough that until it stopped all together, she never suspected a problem. Over time, fewer words from him. Less time with Rose. More time on his own doing god knows what. Eating his food slower, less enthusiastically, less in general. Recently, whole wads of paper have been disappearing, only for half of it to turn up in his bedroom.

How could he go from that sociable child she raised so well, to this?

But she can't worry about that right now. She has the Eichels to cater for. So she sets the dustpan and brush aside for when they're gone, yanks her surprise out from inside a plastic bag on the counter, and returns to them.

"[Okay, Kaspar, here's a present for you,]" she says again in case the baby forgot, showing the family what it is at long last. "[I didn't bother to wrap it up, sorry.]"  
The recipient gurgles in delight, echoing the expressions of his parents. The gift in question is a wooden two-piece puzzle, shining a deep mahogany red and polished to perfection. Gabi, naturally, is the first to say thank you, Phillip right behind.  
"[You're welcome. The kids' father ordered it from NIC the other day; said with a little sanding down, it'd be a great thing for the little one to play with. Maybe I can get mine to -]"

She has to pause to find her son, who's been slowly edging closer to the door to upstairs since she got back. "[Li-Lo, get back here, I'm not done parading you around yet,]" she teases. "[Can you show Kaspar how this puzzle works? I know that's something you can do.]"

He reluctantly makes his way over and takes the pieces from her, doubt underlying his blank face.  
"[That's it. Now bop down and show him how to put it together.]"  
Kneeling awkwardly, he looks at the baby, who is more fascinated by this strange loping man than vice versa. He looks down at the puzzle in his hands, stroking some of the safety-worn corners, then back to him. His knuckles turn paler, his forehead furrows.  
What is he waiting for?

Finally, some movement. He turns over one of the pieces, the C-shaped one, so the hole is facing the lower edge of the other. He takes a visible breath -

\- and clicks the two together.

He seems oddly surprised that this doesn't yield a result. He shifts them around a few micrometres between his fingers, and another collision. Then a third, fourth, a few more at double speed, clack-clack-clack. But the T-shape is simply the wrong way around. It's not going to fit that way. Why can't he see that?

"[Li-Lo, do you want some help with that?]" Phillip offers; if she didn't know him better, it would sound patronizing. But Li-Lo refuses anyway, simply continuing to try and merge them together with increased frustration. Is he hoping they'll just magically coalesce? This should be simple for him.  
Sonje herself steps in now, going over and putting her hands over his. "[Look, let me do it.]" She helps him turn over the T, softly softly, and guides them together. But just as they're almost there, he resists, thrusting hers off, as though a magnetic force is repelling block from block, and she can see the baby is getting ornery, fidgeting.

"[Come on, it's very simple. You don't have to be difficult about this, Liutbert,]" she tells him quietly through the side of her mouth. "[Just turn the T back the right way around - no, not that way. Stop forcing it. _Stop it._ You don't want to disappoint our new friends, do y--?]"

The last syllables of her question die in her mouth as Li-Lo angrily hurls the pieces at the nearest wall and runs off, doors and stairs booming in his wake.

Once again, silence reigns, apart from the prelude to a crying baby.

"[...Would anyone like any more coffee? Or herbal tea? I have herbal tea if anyone wants it?]"


	2. Remembering and Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> Dolly's segment, the first of the two below, has been (admittedly retroactively) given a severe warning stamp. **This means that the content can be triggering to the point of an adverse physical and emotional reaction, up to and including pain empathy.** In this instance, the warning is for severe self-hatred, implied self-harm, and explicit attempted suicide. Read at your own risk, or skip to Sly's story by clicking HERE.
> 
> ETA 15/12/2014: groccio is on _fire_ this month! I'm getting fan art left and right, and I'm sort of falling down from all the flattering! As before, [link is here](http://groccio.tumblr.com/post/105520608341/hey-hugo-can-i-please-ask-a-silly-thing), picture is below, I'll take it down if I'm breaking the trust by putting this up. Do note, however, that I see Izaak Tanzer as Indian-German, despite what the lack of colour or shading in the art may indicate. (If anything, the lack of such is my fault for not making the distinction clear in prose sooner.)

The demons have never been subtle.  
Oh, they can pretend. They can slip into the shadows, stretching out claws in the place of a comforting hand. They can mute their voices, pull them down to murmurs, brooks as opposed to oceans. But they're always there, laying in wait for a better moment to strike. When that time arrives, then they don't bother with that facade, skipping straight to stripping back reality and exposing the grotesque humans underneath, the reflection of their host.

She has never felt their hideousness - hers - more than tonight.

**worthless** _deserve to be alone ** useless** no point to it _**hopeless**

She's never felt so low either. Physically, emotionally, however you slice it. She's literally lying on her side on the floor of her apartment, watching them dance through the weaves of the knitting basket and around the edges of the door. She doesn't have the strength to get up and chase them off.

It's not even that today's been a particularly bad day by her standards, is the stupid thing.  
She shouldn't still be hurting over that dismissal from the minimal wage grind. _I know, I know you've been working really hard, I know you've been trying, but we just don't think that you're currently in the right state of mind to be around the customers, it's not up to me, it's up to the boss, I'm sorry._  She should be used to it.

**can't keep a job anyway**

The whole argument with that so-called friend shouldn't still sting. _Whenever I try to talk to you you completely blank on me and you expect me to listen to you when you're sad, I can't deal with that kind of emotional manipulation, I'm out._ She should be used to it.

_ honest girl she knows how bad you are _

Almost dropping her keys down the gutter again. Losing her self at twelve and coming back at two with liquor stains on her top. A mix of pain and the absence thereof.  
She. Should. Be. Used. To. It.

But shoulds and woulds and coulds mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Only the dos, the don'ts, the can'ts.

_your problems mean nothing_ **awful thing**  
_nothing at all_ **nothing**  
**_YOU mean nothing_**

Is it her own fingernails digging into the bare flesh of her arms now, or is that a particularly persistent devil? Makes no difference. Let them join the other marks, explained and not. Every one tells a story, they say. How messed up, then, are those she has to tell?  
She wishes they aren't. She hopes for a fairy tale instead.

_** fairy tales fairy tales fractured freak ** _  
_ they don't come true idiot _  
**go on you waste of space tell us a story ** _ try not to cry _  
** go back to once upon a time  
**_once upon a time_

Once upon a time there was a wee girl born in a distant land, quite far from here. Hints of blonde hair even then, so her Ma said, and a cheeky streak a mile wide. When she was in trouble they said 'Jolene Lusk ye naughty bairn' _naughty more like filthy_ **_causing nothing but pain_** but when she was good they called her Dolly instead, for as a little babe she was very small like a bonnie china toy but her hands had a grip to them like the horns of an old ram, so it brought both of those together, ye see?  
The girl grew up to be six and a bit years old, as playful as such kids can be, even if she was a brat at times. All children are brats, really. It just took a steady person like her Ma to stop her from causing any harm, so that she was happy, and Dolly was too.

But something went wrong.  
What something? The wee thing can't remember. Anything around her sixth year on this planet is a blur. Whenever she asked about it, her Ma would just go all quiet and try to change the subject, and over time, she just stopped asking.

What she does know is that, after that day, she was broken.  
**you were always broken Dolly** _they just kept lying to you **lying lying lying**_  
She stopped being quite so cheerful and started being afraid instead, especially of big dogs and most other animals that liked to scratch and bite. They took her away from her homeland to Germany when her auntie became sick, but neither of them got fixed there.

The girl was fourteen, nearly a young woman by now, when she saw her first demon in the flesh, lurking out of the corner of her eye and cackling. That was shortly after the first possession too. They got in through the cracks on her right shoulder, covered up what she saw and heard and forgot, and gave her new ones all along her back and stomach when there was no light left.  
Again, no one would tell her what the matter with her was. It wasn't until she was eighteen that anyone even suggested she might have depression, for all the bloody good that did.

And now she is coming up to twenty-five and Dolly is telling all this to the monsters that already know what happened and what is going to. They know there's no reason to keep the story going.

At last, she finds the strength to do something. Pooling it into one spot, she pushes into the hard ground, sitting up. The puzzle of her right arm grabs pitifully at the haunted basket, swats them back, pulls it over to her. Lots of wool in here, strings and books and huge knitting needles, as long as a can of aerosol.  
Sharp, too, for such thick things. Could cause some damage, if nothing else.

She should say goodbye first, really, a part of her thinks. It would be kinder.

_**but no point in bothering ** no one will miss you_  
**better off going** _**better off**_

Right, of course they won't. They'll call her weak, if anything. But wasn't it always gonna be this way?

** hurry up just do it just die **

Fairy tales don't come true, not at all. The broken doll dies. Bad guys win. Close the book.

_ end it end it end it end it end it _

She digs the tip of the needle into the part of her chest where her heart should be. Further in. It digs, presses against the skin, not breaking.  
A fiercer stabbing motion, red fogging across her eyes. Keep it steady, keep it at this angle. There should be a dent.

One more push, and it'll all be over.

** you deserve this **

Nothing to worry about ever again.

_ you deserve _

Just one tap.

_** you deserve A WORSE DEATH THAN THIS ** _

...

It is only one dissension. Not even a positive one. But it's just enough.  
Her sheep-grip fails her again, and the needle clatters down. She falls onto herself, clenches everything, the creatures muffled by her guilt.

_**coward  ** _  
_ too scared even to die _  
** can't even kill yourself right **  
_ why do we even bother _  
_** scum ** _

 

She doesn't know how long she hears them saying things like that. The next time she manages to open her eyes, they are gone, dispelled by the sun pouring through her window. She must have fallen asleep at some point.  
Her throat is all gummed up, her mouth is dry. Looking down, she can still see the dent from the night before. That's gonna leave another scar.  
But she is alive. There's still more chapters to go yet.

Dolly sits there, contemplating her state for a while. She doesn't feel any happier than at least yesterday morning, but she doesn't feel as sad. She's not sure she feels much of anything, except this need to think.  
So she formulates a new plan.

She's going to get out of these clothes, get washed, put on some fresh jeans and a turtleneck - not her favourite, but one that she would feel comfortable wearing for a few days in a row. She'll ring her Ma, to tell her that she tried to kill herself, that she is going to get herself help, and that she'll always love her. She'll pay the rent she owes so far this month, then get her stuff out of the apartment and drop it off at her parent's place. She'll find her way to the outskirts of town, where that new institution was supposed to have opened a month or so ago.  
And she is going to find it in herself to purge these demons,

_ before we purge you. _

Because this story has to end.

\-------------------------------------

Something is growling. He can hear it all around him, in his ears and everything. It's not an angry sort of growl, so it doesn't scare him - no, it's more like a purr, actually, or a mix of the two. It rumbles through his feet and his fingers, like he's on top of a large orange tiger.

Ka-thump.

It even feels like one, his face lying flat against it. Bristly and warm and soft, if more leathery than he thought one would be. So maybe a tiger-crocodile mix? No, silly, those animals can't breed. The fog of his mind tells him he learned that in school long ago. Just a regular single animal, with its paws lying flat to show the pink bits and its adorable face.

Ka-thump.

He wants to stay on the big cat forever.

KA-THUMP!  
But he can't, because the ground jostles, leaps, throws him into bright lights and sounds and awakeness and hurts his chest, and it's not a tiger at all, it's seats, and the purrgrowl is the steady constant thrum of a truck.

Properly alert now, he tries to sit up and get his bearings together. What happened last night? How did he get from whatever that was to here?  
Squirming proves he's already got his seatbelt on; that's good for road safety. He's got clothes on too, what would be the usual mishmash of all his favourite colours if they weren't covered in dirt, scuffs, rips, Shiva knows what else. He runs his hands over them and sees that his palms are sore and red. They're not normally red. And his hair, he can see it off to the side, is turquoise with lime green stripes. He doesn't remember dyeing it blue and green. It's the wrong month for it, it should be orange!  
He's very perplexed right now, so he calms himself by looking out of the windscreen of the vehicle he's in. The sun is halfway up the sky, which in turn is the colour of his bad wrong hair, with not a cloud in sight. A long stretch of grey and silver runs ahead, going into the horizon, with white lines on top. His eyes follow those stripes as they slide from out there to under the front and back again, the grains of concrete stretching down beside them, but after a while it starts making him feel icky, so he looks under the rear view mirror instead. There's trinkets hanging from it, a feathery whatsit and a plastic doodad.

 _[...Wait a minute.]_ A very important question comes up through the still-a-bit-murky blur. _[Who's driving this thing?]_

For a very real moment he fears that he's supposed to do it, that he fell asleep at the wheel and he's going to get into trouble, but no, he can't see the wheel in front of him so he must be safe. It's more to the right of him, and someone's already sitting there. No, that must be the driver. He definitely looks like it, with one hand idling against the horn, another on the gear stick, glasses, and a **lot**  less hair (though his own comes to his neck so that isn't saying a lot).

"[Hi,]" he says to break the ice.

He must have known he was there already, because he isn't surprised at this stranger in the truck. "[Oh, good, you're awake. Thought it'd be soon. Roads are pretty rough around these parts.]" The man has a nice voice to listen to, which is even better; it's got a hint of Low Saxon in there. "[How are you feeling?]"  
"[Pretty good, I guess. Confused, but good.]"  
"[Great. Didn't want you to wake up hurt all over or anything.]"  
"[No, sir, I don't have any hurty bits.]"  
"[Hey, whoa, no need for 'sir',]" the other protests. "[Sir's a bit fancy for a backwater trucker. Call me Hugo. And I can call you...?]"

Hm. He looks back on the past day, shifting in the seat. Elements of what happened are coming back to him, slowly and in patches. His grandparents, his caretakers, with their worried faces and kind touches, he knows they have something to do with it. He can see a rainbow, not outside but a few hours ago; somewhere along the line he was hit by one. He can hear voices in his head that sound like monsters and mice and men, high and low, talking about problems with his eyes and his mind and his skin - _sinn, Sly, schlau, 'zaak_ -

Oh, right, he has to say his name. "Slyzaak!"  
Hugo's face goes befuddled. "[Sorry?]"  
"[Uh, Izaak, I mean. I'm Izaak. Izaak Tanzer. Izaak.]"  
"[Well, nice to meet you, fancy-name. I've never talked to an Izaak before. And trust me, my job gets me talking to a lot of people, so's not often I can say that.]"  
He simply repeats "[Izaak]" for lack of any other reply to that, getting stuck on the Z. Zah, zah.

Both pairs of eyes return to the road ahead. The whole world is passing by the left hand window, as fast as it can. Lampposts, traffic lights, bushes, fields. If it weren't for all the confusing muddle bits, it'd be a wonderful day.

After a few minutes, he finds the sense to actually point this out, as he kicks his shoeless ankles against the solid metal underneath. "[Hey Hugo. Can I please ask a silly thing?]"  
"[Be as silly as you please, I ain't judging.]"  
"[ **Why** am I in a truck with you?]"

"[Thought you'd never ask,]" says Hugo jovially. "[Strange story, actually - I was just hauling a load of pipes up to Hambühren, not a soul coming in any direction, and then what do I see but you hanging over a ditch in the road. You were trying to climb one of those telephone boxes and acting like it was a, what was it, a talking tree? I couldn't--]"  
"[Don't be daft!]" Izaak interrupts, fighting the urge to giggle. "[Why would I think a tree could talk?]"  
"[I was trying to figure that out my--]"  
"[Trees sing, they don't talk. I've heard them sing before, like in the opera place, but not talk, no.]"

"[...Right. But I couldn't just leave you out there on your own like that; I might have had a job to do, but I'm not heartless. So I got you in here and took you to where I was going to anyway,]" he continues. "[You don't remember any of that?]"  
"[Nope.]"  
"[Don't know what you were seeing, then. I sure couldn't make it out. You kept talking like I was some kind of vengeful god, like I kicked you out of this mosh-thing for sinning or something; you were just going on and on and on about it like ...]"

Kicked out for sinning?  
This time, he doesn't interrupt, instead wringing his hands together in dawning thought. Yes, now he remembers hearing something like that. He can hear it now, a terribly loud voice telling him that he's lost his chance at Moksha for the rest of his days, that he can never achieve liberation...  
No. He can't have done. Right? Shiva wouldn't allow it. Better yet, his Omi wouldn't. She'd be heartbroken.

By the time he's formed the words, though, Hugo has moved on: "[...your kooky talk. Good thing it's my day off today, I say, so I can get you there without risking my hide.]" He turns to him, and his expression falters; he must be letting on how worried he is. "[Are you okay, Izaak?]"  
"Oh ja ja, [I'm fine,]" he's quick to comfort. "[I'm just having thoughts.]"  
"[Were you listening? Do you know where I'm taking you?]"  
"Um..." Crap. He's gotten stuck on something and ignored people again, he's been told not to do that. "[Home?]"

"[No, **not** home. I don't know where yours is, and I doubt my partner would be happy if I took home another one of you stragglers.]"  
The passenger manages to be smart again, and works out that he must not have his phone on him. That's not good either. He'll be in double trouble when he gets there.  
"[What I said was, I'm gonna take you to, how do I put this nicely? A help centre, yeah, where they can help you get away from whatever was out there. My old coworker says it'd be a perfect place for you, because it uses colours to help people. And I'm betting you like colours.]"  
"[Ooh, I do!]" he cries. "[Green and orange and purple and blue and everything. Can I get colours there?]"  
"[I'm sure you can.]"

Not only that, but maybe - he hopes - he can also get a clue as to how he got on the road, around a singing tree, and into a truck-tiger in the first place. And that will get him back to where he was before.

"[...Hugo? First, thanks.]" Best to get politenesses out of the way. "[Next, can I ask another silly?]"  
"[Go ahead.]"  
"[Do you mind if we play I-Spy until we get there? I don't wanna just watch the road, and I'm very good at it. No one knows how I come up with the answers!]"

The truck driver has returned to looking where he's going, but he can't stop the smile. "[Okay, I'm game. But you'd better come up with some real tricky stuff, Izaak. We've got a lot of road and time between us and Sassnitz.]"


	3. Sticklers and Outliers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of the transferral of characters from plushie forms to human forms, certain elements of their characterizations have to change accordingly. You have already seen evidence of this with Kroko and Sly, and you will see the same to Dr Wood. He's still the same narcissistic jerk, but since he can't be the only stuffed toy in a human profession anymore, I had to find another 'unique characteristic' for him, so I gave him a certain belief instead, one that I believe is consistent with Kittsteiner's admittedly-problematic way of writing mental disorders. 
> 
> Tl;dr: I do not enforce Wood's words at all; it's just my way of making him believe himself justified in his own self-belief.

"Hey. You forgot your water. Do you want me to-?"  
"I'll get some later, thanks."

Twelve minutes in. 5% gradient. 17km an hour. Gotta start slow, as much as he can anyway. He blurs the centre away, focusing on the rising of the numbers.

"I don't think you want to leave it. It's very hot today."  
"I SAID I'll get it later."

Thirteen minutes. Same slope, nudge the speed up a touch. He can afford to. He's all lumbered up, he can do this quickly and well. Best of both worlds.

"...You also forgot your towel. It's in the spare roo--"  
"For god's sake, Anton, I'm fine!" he says testily before returning attention to his treadmill run.

Exercise like this - minus all the annoyances and pettier elements, of course - is what Dub Hartell lives for. It's been so for as long as he can remember. The relaxation of a steady pace, the thrill of the race, the pounding of hearts and beading of sweat and the taste of sweet victory and bitter iron in his mouth. Every stretch and bend of muscle and sinew working with him, with each other, in beautiful tandem, to get him where he needs to be and further. Aiming for the record-breaking feats of Usain Bolt, the streamlined movement of David Storl, the lovely sheer physique of Terrence Trammell.  
He's done it at home, and he'll carry on here, no matter how much Anton tells him to calm down, get some rest, go commit himself for a problem that doesn't exist (as **if**  one can train too hard). Despite being in a country he barely knows, he persists on the route of perfection, as direct as the crow flies.

Fifteen minutes. He's bumped up the gradient by a percent, but the rhythm of the smack of his never-removed trainers remains the same. He's on a roll, going this far in half of half an hour. If only Max were still here to see this...

Of all the distractions to tear him from what he's doing, the distinct lack of best-friend-since-primary-school is the most vocal and troubling.  
Back in Manchester it was uncommon, if not super rare, to hear their names with anyone's but each other's. Dub, Max, the purple team's looking demotivated, you think you can perk them up? Max, Dub, you up for some Foster's after work? Yo Max, betcha can't race Dub across this field on one leg, I double dare ya. What's up, Dub, is Max in another of his post-dumped blues?  
They would have booked the tickets to Germany in the same portmanteau if they could've. As it was, they just sat in the same aisle, booked the same hotel room, trawled the same locales... The week off was a great break from everything, even (begrudgingly) keeping in shape.

And then - disaster of disasters - Dub missed the early morning flight home. To be more precise, he missed a whole day, everything from their last evening on the beaches to waking up outside the hotel, plane ticket torn to shreds, a total blank.

The memory forces him to 20km an hour, vaguely reflecting his state that day.  
It took a lot of lost wandering and fiddling with his phone and smacking it against things because, of course, he can't get any reception with it here, before he stumbled across this fitness centre. The boss of this place, through Anton's translation, was kind enough to let him use the office phone to call Max and ask what the hell was going on. Or try to. His friend has become unreachable, wiped off the social map. Just dial tones. No picking up for strange numbers, no delivery to his email address, nothing.

So Dub-Max has been replaced in his ear with simply Dub, or worse, Dub **lin**. We may be open twenty-four hours, Dub, but our machines are not. Dublin, we'd prefer it if you didn't break the treadmill or your foot to do this. We're not calling you that, Dub, your fanaticism just worries us. Will you at least consider getting help if it comes to it, Dub?  
Which is ridiculous. Dub doesn't need to be locked up in an asylum, whether the place is supposedly so good or not. That's for people who can't function day to day, like schizophrenics and psychopaths. He's just trying to keep fit and get his best friend back. If he's using a treadmill for a long time to do it, how's that their business?

Surely fixing on something is a good thing. It means that he's not wasting his life, drip by drip. Not like his mum, or his uncle. _Especially_ not like his great-grandma did.  
"I'm not like them," he mutters to himself.

How many minutes? He's lost count. Should he have increased something by now? He's feeling kind of tight already, body aching around the lower legs. Has another thirty slipped by without him noticing? God, he's gotta get back to work.

"Dublin, excuse me? If it's not a bother?"  
Ugh, he's had about enough of this. "For the love of crap, Anton, WHAT?!"

...  
Up until this point, Dub has been exercising in terms of sixty-second chunks. But in certain crises and pivotal moments, as now, time expands, magnifies, and people start to count the more minuscule units instead. It's the only way they can think of to contextualize things that happen so quickly. He, without knowing, does that as well.

In the first eighth of a second, someone throws a tennis ball at him.  
Or that's how it feels anyway. The impact ricochets along his right calf, deep into his ankle, along the not-entirely-flat sole of the foot.  
The ground still moves during the second chunk, sending the leg swerving back, and it catches him off balance. Third, fourth, fifth, see him hurtling to the rotating surface, and ends with him flattened against the back edge where the conveyor turns inward on itself.  
  
The rest of this moment is his mind still whirling, trying to get its centre back through the immediate fog of pain.

He hears voices where time flows at its proper pace, one he doesn't understand and the other Anton's. "Dub, are you all right?"  
"Y-yeah, I'm good," he vaguely replies. He has to be. That was a bad step, that's all, he - his brain - decides. It's sore, but he's worked through worse than this. If he can get up and back on there, it'll go away. Just gotta suppress.  
His hands grip the more solid sides and he tries to raise himself, propping a leg up to keep him steady. Unfortunately, it's the right one, and a paroxysm of electricity shoots up the nerves when it touches the floor and sends it back down again, and his clever plan of trying to keep it secret is immediately scuppered. " **OW** OW-Jesus-Ow!!"

"That doesn't look 'good' to me."  
Let's try again. He drags most of him back into the world of minutes. "No, really, it's- DAhk--!" Barely a shifting of it resumes the near-agony. So not good.  
"Can you move your ankle?"  
"Whaddya think I'm trying to- ow- do?!" Progress is made as he rolls onto his side and gets his torso upright, but it's little comfort with this and with everyone staring at him. Christ, he thinks he can feel it swelling already.

Now that he's getting a proper look from this angle, there's a strange sense of confirmation behind the other's concerned expression. "You see, this sort of thing is what we were hoping to avoid. Now you're badly hurt and--"  
"And you're not exactly helping here, Anton!" he curses through clenched teeth.  
"All right, sorry. I'll go get Eberhard. He has a first aid kit."

It doesn't take long for the owner to arrive on the scene; Dub's managed to make it onto the nearest wooden bench in the meantime. His inability to keep his feet still betrays him, his free one tapping the air while the right one tries to follow suit without moving, a physical incapability.  
As Eberhard presses and squeezes the increasingly-tender calf, his heart goes cold at the thought that after this, there's a chance he might never be able to use it again. And after something he recognizes as the Simmonds test, the worst case scenario is confirmed: it's a Level 2 strain of the Achilles tendon, torn by a mix of a bad step placement and overwork. He has to ice it for the next two days, and rest up for another six weeks after that.

A month and a half with no exercise. No treadmill practice. No jogging in place. No use of his rope.  
What's he supposed to do with himself?

Ever-present ever-'worried' Anton seems to have the answer. " _Now_ will you consider getting help?"

...Feh.  
Even athletes as good as Terrence know when they're out of the game, don't they?

\-------------------------------------

"[Ahem. Attention, please. If I can have everyone's attention.]"

The voice is alien to them all. As well it should be, for they have never heard it before. But it is, fittingly, enough to bring all eyes towards him (except for one, focused on his ever persistent comfort item, but he shall have words with him later).

"[As you have no doubt been informed by he himself, your therapist Dr Kindermann will be temporarily leaving you all in a week's time. He has been called to bridge a gap between science and psychology in the DFG Tokyo Office, to the best of my knowledge. During his absence, it is necessary for him to employ two replacements to take over his work obligations.  
"[I am one such replacement. The second will be arriving later in the week, but I feel it best to introduce myself sooner rather than later. I am Dr Wood - PhD, naturally - and my future colleague and I will be dividing therapeutic and paperwork duties between us,]" (though he will do all he can to hoist the foreboded 'needlework' element onto them,) "[so I will have further chance to get to know you as the time comes, be that on the couch or in, ah, less fortunate circumstances.

"[I must admit, compared to where I imagined my debut as a psychiatrist to be, I never expected it to be somewhere so... how do I say this nicely? Obscure, perhaps, as this Institution of Sense-Based Healing. Even the name beggars belief; amateur at best, uninspired at worst.]"  
He can see the nurse in the corner, looking every bit the part in her blue cap and gown, make an insulted frown at his words. And he does admit, he is being somewhat harsh on his fellow Mannheim graduate's pet project. Yet what idea, concept or person ever improved from mindless flattery, prattle without purpose?  
Nonetheless, he had better improve his first impression, or no one will take to him. "[But I do owe Kindermann a favour,]" he confesses to aid in this, "[and hopefully my added presence will be able to rise this place up from its previous mediocrity and into the clinic it dreams of becoming.

"[Which leads me to my main point, all tangents aside. Just because he will be absent, and we will take his place, does not mean that we will slack in giving any of you the therapy process that you each need. Some of you may be more difficult to treat than others. Perhaps you're incapable of realizing the harmlessness of your environment.]"  
He directs that particular statement to the patient he's assuming is Arndt. What isn't obscured by the layer of his own hair (which he still refuses to adjust, the sole condition of his spot employment) is made doubly so by the closely held baby-blue pillow, serving as both a shield and an indicator. According to Kindermann, the 'scrawny male' walked out holding it during his first full day and has refused to let go of it since. But it won't protect him from what frightens him. Nothing will, short of a worldwide drought.

"[Or you may be inaccessible in different regards... such as your inability to pay attention when someone is talking to you.]"  
Liutbert-Lothar has crossed his path already, as best as he can; the meeting mostly consisted of the two bumping into one another and the purple-shirted other, engrossed in creating a square from two pieces of balsa, running away in lieu of apologizing. The case file suggests that he once could have, and he will have to keep the possibility open if he is to get anywhere with him; but judging by his ignorance now, he finds that hard to believe. Who, after all, wouldn't get out of the way seeing him coming?

"[Any attempts at making contact with you may only lead to shouting, or worse.]"  
The sole female of the patients is currently self-restrained, following an 'episode' that Kindermann refused to describe to him. Her dark brown arms are bound by both blue turtleneck sleeves and white cloth, preventing her from touching anything or anyone, so presumably she was dangerous to herself and others... in fact, she looks almost _feral_. He makes a mental note to avoid riling her if feasible.

"[Or you might make the attempt at communication, only to find it is not with reality.]"  
The man named Izaak is lying on his stomach on the floor, prodding at the green segment on a game of Simon as his feet draw patterns behind him. It's not making the requisite beeping sound; no doubt the nurse already removed the batteries from it. Good; he'd wondered what all the commotion was earlier today about '[getting Sly to shut up]'.

"[Or, simply put, you don't realize you have an issue in the first place, even when it's throbbing right underneath you.]"  
He knows that the one remaining admission, Dublin, won't understand him, but that is for better right now. He's being annoyingly eye-catching as it is, intermittently running a tanned hand over that shorn head, leaning his chair back in that cocksure position, refusing to keep the leg with the ice pack on it still for three seconds even as it makes him wince in pain with that familiar-seeming mouth _[and that is quite enough of that,] ich danke Inhen sehr. [You are in control. BE in control.]_

"[But whatever the reason for your being here, the goal by the end is for you to become fit for societal re-integration. To be cured. And I hold the belief, no matter how much naysayers may belittle me, that all disorders have a cure, even those that claim to have none. It's simply a matter of finding them. Therefore, if I have my way, I - and my co-worker, wherever they may be - will see all five of you well again before a year has passed.]"

Helfgott, with clear onyx skin and even purer ambitions, concludes his welcome by slipping a smile.

"[And I **will** have my way.]"


End file.
